Something's Off (A Slowburn NTR) H

CHAPTER 10

I wasn't sure what woke me up maybe the birds, maybe the rising heat but the moment my eyes opened, I felt it. That weird heaviness in my chest again. Not fear, exactly. Not even guilt. It was something darker, messier. A mix of awareness and tension sitting low in my stomach, crawling up my spine like an itch I couldn't scratch.

I lay there a while, staring at the ceiling fan as it squeaked in lazy circles. I hadn't forgotten. I was supposed to go help the old man today. And the thing was, I could've made an excuse. I could've told my husband I wasn't feeling well, or I had chores at home. But I didn't. I got up, changed, and tied my hair like it was just any other day. Only, it wasn't.

When wearing my clothes, my mind registered the way the fabric stretched across my hips, the slight curve of my ass visible when I bent or reached. I told myself it didn't matter. But I still looked at myself a second longer in the mirror before stepping out.

The air outside was still, thick with the kind of silence that hangs before a storm. As I neared his door, my steps slowed. My fingers trembled just a little when I rang the bell. When he opened the door, the smell of him hit me--cheap soap, musty clothes, and something sharp underneath. He smiled in that quiet, eerie way he always did. Eyes shameless. He never even tried to hide the way he looked at me.

"You came," he said, stepping aside, letting me in. His eyes swept over me like always--lingering where they had no business lingering.

I nodded, stepping inside, already regretting it but too proud to walk away. "I'll start with the kitchen," I said, and didn't wait for a reply.

The floor was dusty. The kitchen reeked of damp wood and old spices. I took a deep breath and got to work--sweeping, wiping, pretending I couldn't feel his eyes following every movement. Every time I bent over, I could feel him behind me, like a shadow pressed against my ass even if he wasn't touching. The air between us grew heavier with each passing minute. My throat dried up, and yet I didn't stop. I kept cleaning like a woman possessed, like I had something to prove.

Halfway through scrubbing the counter, he passed by me--slowly, deliberately close. I could smell the stale sweat on him. I knew it wasn't an accident. His hand brushed mine. Just for a second. Enough to make me pause.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff but smooth like he enjoyed watching me flinch.

"Yeah," I lied, too quickly. "Just tired."

He laughed softly. "Your man keeping you busy?"

I didn't answer. I turned and reached for the mop. As I bent, my skirt rose slightly, and I felt it--his eyes burning into my backside. That's when the heat crawled up my neck again. Embarrassment? Shame? Or something worse--something like thrill.

I hated myself for it.

He didn't say much after that. Just watched. Like I was some personal performance meant for him alone. I could feel him getting off on the silence, the obedience. I could hear the tick of the wall clock growing louder. The longer I stayed, the more I felt like something was cracking inside me. Some old layer of me peeling back--wife, mother, maid. Beneath it, a woman who had been looked at like that once. A woman who used to be aware of her own body. Of her own power.

It disgusted me that he saw that before my own husband did.

After a while, he called out, "Can you read the names on these tablets? My eyes are going bad."

I moved to the table, stood beside him. He handed me a strip of pills, his fingers brushing mine again, slow and sticky like honey. I read out the names, my voice low, almost hoarse. He just kept staring at me, his lips slightly parted, like he wasn't listening to a damn word--just watching the shape of my mouth.

When I turned back to the sink to finish the last few dishes, I bent over a bit too much. I knew it. I could feel the fabric stretch across my ass, hear the creak of his chair as he adjusted himself. He wasn't even subtle anymore.

But I didn't stop. I let him look. It was shameful. But for some reason, I was enjoying this game.

I should be ashamed. My actions felt like a betrayal to my husband but my body chose to disagree.

And just when I thought the moment couldn't get any thicker, the door banged open.

It was loud, sudden, stupid.

I froze.

And then I heard it--his voice. My husband.

"What... what are you doing?" I asked, stepping forward. Confused.

The old man scowled at him. "What is wrong with you? You come banging like I've locked her inside?"

I stared at my husband. He looked... lost. Guilt was written across his face, even before he spoke.

"I was just worried," he said softly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to--"

I didn't say anything right then. I didn't trust what might come out. Anger. Shame. Embarrassment.

We left quietly. I didn't look back at the old man's face.

At home, I walked straight to the kitchen, it stung me when I recalled how my actions were infront of the old man. That wasn't me. That was somebody else. I still love my husband and thats it.

I pulled out the leftovers, and reheated them. My hands moved fast, but my heart was slow. Heavy.

When I knocked on the study door and stepped in with his plate, I saw the weight on his shoulders. He looked like a child caught lying.

I placed the plate on the table.

"You didn't come out," I said.

He didn't answer. Just looked at me with those sorry eyes.

So I hugged him.

I didn't know why. Maybe to comfort him. Maybe to comfort myself. He wrapped his arms around me too, tightly. And in that moment, we were quiet. Together.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

I didn't reply for a few seconds. Then, "Don't do that again."

He nodded.

I sat beside him and explained what happened.

"I was mopping. It really stank in there. He just asked for help with his medicines. I read the labels and put them on the table. That's all."

His shoulders eased a little. His eyes softened. I saw relief--and something else. Shame.

I stood up.

"Eat your lunch before it gets cold," I said and walked out.

But I didn't forget the way the old man looked at me. Or how my knees felt weak when his feet came near. Or the strange, silent thing inside me that had stirred when I saw him watching.

I didn't have a name for it.

But I knew it hadn't been there before.

And now, I wasn't sure how to make it go away.

Chapter 11

After handing him his lunch and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I left him in the living room with his laptop open and that blank stare he always had when work swallowed him whole. I told myself I needed to focus on my own day, but the truth was, even after stepping into the hallway, I could still feel it--the heat burning in my belly. That lingering, shameful little flame I tried to convince myself didn't exist. The same one I felt earlier when I bent over to wipe the floor in front of the old man and knew, without question, that he was watching me.

I should've straightened up right away. Should've turned, glared, done something. But I didn't. I stayed there longer than I needed to, ass stuck out, tits hanging forward inside my shirt, the whole damn pose like some slutty display. And I knew it. I fucking knew it.

I kept telling myself it wasn't intentional. That it was innocent. But it wasn't. Somewhere deep down, I liked knowing his eyes were on me. That thrill... that tight flutter between my thighs. It made no sense, and I hated that I felt it. No, I refused to accept it. I wasn't some bored wife looking for attention. Tomorrow, I'd go again to clean, and I'd be careful. Focused. I wouldn't let myself act like that again. I'd be normal.

The next morning came. When I told him I was heading back to the old man's place, he gave me that awkward little smile and told me to take care. I could see it in his eyes though. That worry. That hesitation. I didn't want to add to it. So I smiled like I always do and stepped out.

But I felt it again. The little thump in my chest. That soft tingling spark just above my mound, like nerves or something more. I tried to shake it off. Just cleaning. Just chores. I told myself again and again.

The old man greeted me with a smile when I arrived. Too polite. Too calm. Like nothing happened yesterday. Good. That's how it should be. I walked inside, trying to stay focused, trying not to breathe too deeply because that fucking stench still clung to everything. That old, musty, almost rotten smell that made my nose wrinkle and my stomach twist.

I kept myself busy. Mopping. Dishes. Keeping my ass low, my shirt tucked, refusing to give him a repeat show. He sat quietly on the couch most of the time, staring at some photo frame like it meant the world to him. I didn't ask. Wasn't my place. But I didn't trust him. I knew he was the kind to sneak glances, to "accidentally" brush too close. He hadn't yet. But I knew better.

Then he got up and disappeared into his bedroom. That felt... off. He usually just sat around and gave unnecessary comments. But now? Quiet and gone?

I wiped my hands dry and figured I'd tell him I was done and leave. But part of me... part of me said no. It told me to stay the fuck out of that bedroom. That nothing good would come from walking in there. But my feet moved anyway.

He was sitting on the bed. Head down. Shoulders slumped. I squinted, trying to see his face. Was he crying? Or just pretending?

I cleared my throat. "I think I'm done, I'll head out now."

He looked up at me with this pitiful, almost broken expression. Like a kicked dog. I don't know why, but something inside me softened. He reminded me of my grandpa. That same lonely, sad look. So I stepped closer and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

He was holding a picture. I glanced at it--probably his grandson or someone he lost. We made small talk. Stiff and awkward. But the kind you do when someone's hurting. He told me he felt alone. That no one visited anymore. That being old meant being invisible. And maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was how familiar it felt, but I forgot for a second about the stench and the weird energy and everything else.

Then he asked--quiet, hesitant--if he could get a hug.

I hesitated. I should've said no. But something in me cracked. "Sure," I said, soft. Like an idiot.

He leaned in. I wrapped my arms around his back, and he did the same. Only... not the same. His mouth landed on my neck. Hot, wet breath brushing my skin. I shivered, telling myself it was just the height difference. That his arms were just... misplaced. But one was climbing up my back and the other was clearly moving too low, dragging across the top of my ass like he was trying not to grope, but couldn't help it.

I froze. I didn't stop him. Why didn't I pull away?

His fingers pressed into my flesh. Not hard enough to call it out, but just enough that I could feel the intent. Feel the heat from his palm spreading across my ass like a dirty secret. His mouth lingered near my collarbone, the breath getting hotter, closer.

It disgusted me. Or maybe I disgusted myself. Because even as I told myself this was wrong, something disgusting in me was stirring. That same flicker of heat. That pulse between my legs that I couldn't explain or kill.

Then his lips actually touched my neck. Full contact. Just once. But I felt it. Felt every wrinkle, every damn nerve fire off at once like an electric jolt of shame and arousal. I shot up, finally, heart racing, breath caught in my throat.

What the hell was I doing? Why did I let it get that far?

I mumbled something about leaving. Couldn't meet his eyes. Could barely stand the feel of my own skin.

He asked one last thing, voice low. Told me there was a list on the table for some medicines. I didn't even respond. I just nodded, grabbed the slip, and walked out of that house like it was on fire.

Except the flames weren't outside. They were in me.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Chapter 12

After picking the list placed on the table. I stepped out of that house feeling dizzy--not from the heat, or the exhaustion--but from something deeper. Something I didn't want to name.

His scent still clung to me.

That old, musty, heavy stench from his unwashed clothes, from his breath so close to my cheek when he leaned in too long for that hug. It had crept onto me, soaked into the fabric of my clothes, maybe even into my skin.

I walked home briskly, still flustered. I kept touching my side where his arm had lingered--where his fingers had pressed into the curve of my ass and briefly, unmistakably, softly pressed. My chest felt tight... not with fear exactly... but with something messier.

As soon as I stepped through the gate, I remembered the paper--the small list he had placed on the table, half-folded, with the names of a few medicines scribbled down. I walked quickly toward the nearby pharmacy.

But when I reached the shop, I glanced at my phone and froze.

Over an hour. Shit.

Had I really been gone that long? My stomach flipped. He must be freaking out. And on top of it all... I reeked of that place. Of that man. It wasn't just the scent anymore--it was the weight of everything that had happened in there. His touch. The way I hadn't pushed him away fast enough. The flicker of something wrong... or thrilling... I didn't know anymore.

I caught a faint whiff of it again as I stood there--him, on me.

My panic grew sharper, rising in my throat.

Clutching the medicine bag tightly in one hand, I rushed back toward the house, my footsteps quick, my breath uneven. The further I got from the old man's place, the more the guilt started clawing up my spine. I shouldn't have let it happen. That hug. That touch. My silence.

I shouldn't have liked any of it. But a part of me had.

I rang the bell and left the medicines on the doorstep of the old man's house. And now I was walking toward our door, drenched in guilt and sweat and something darker. A storm built in my chest as I reached out, hand trembling slightly.

Just as I touched the handle, the door opened.

And there he was--my husband.

His face was stiff, eyes wild with the kind of worry I knew too well. He must've been pacing inside, sick with fear. And here I was... the cause of it all.

I quickly straightened up and forced a smile, cheerful like nothing had happened. "Sorry I'm late! I had to go buy some medicines. That's why it took a bit longer," I said lightly, hoping my voice sounded natural.

But I saw it in his eyes--he was still tense, still locked in the fear that something had gone wrong.

I reached out, took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. "Hey," I said softly, "everything's fine."

And for a moment, I thought maybe that was enough. That it would ease the storm I had left behind in him.

The odor hung heavy--sour, musky, corrupted. My chest tightened in panic. My body was betraying me. Again. I didn't stop to explain. I didn't dare. I could feel his eyes trailing behind me, confused but cautious, the way he gets when he doesn't want to start another fight. I headed straight to the bathroom without saying a word. My heart was racing the entire way.

I stripped quickly, throwing my clothes into the basket like they were contaminated. Maybe they were. Maybe I was. Under the harsh shower spray, I rubbed harder than usual, scrubbing at my thighs, my breasts, between my legs--anywhere that he might've touched or looked at with those disgusting eyes or anywhere I let him touch. Because I hadn't pulled away. When the old man wrapped his arms around me earlier, alone with him in that quiet, empty room, I hadn't protested. I should've. But instead... I stood there. Frozen. His hand had slid down my back, gripping my ass--his fingers pressing into the softness just enough to leave a trace of heat behind.

I let out a small, involuntary moan at the memory. My face burned with shame. I hadn't just tolerated it. Part of me had enjoyed it. My legs had gone weak, my breath hitched in my throat. It wasn't love. It wasn't even lust. It was something else--something wrong and twisted and buried so deep inside me I didn't want to name it.

I stepped out wrapped in a towel, my skin red from the water and the guilt. I saw him waiting for me at the table, lunch already prepared. His smile was soft, gentle. It should've made me feel better. But instead, it pierced through me. He was being kind. Thoughtful. Loving. And all I could think about was another man's hands all over me. The way Ray had grabbed my waist back during the burglary, thinking I was a pillow. The way he didn't let go even after realizing I wasn't. His breath had brushed my neck. My body had trembled back then too... not from fear.

I sat down and forced a smile. My husband spoke kindly. We ate in peace. But I wasn't at peace. Not inside. The food tasted bland, like it wasn't reaching me. I kept replaying everything--those strange moments with Ray, the hug from the old man, the eyes of strangers whenever I stepped outside. Was it my fault? Was I dressing differently? Was I... inviting it?

After lunch, I excused myself and went to lie down. He went out for some air. I could hear the door shut behind him and only then did I finally breathe again.

My body was still burning. The memories wouldn't stop circling my mind. Ray's hand, firm on my waist. That moment his lips almost brushed my ear. The hug earlier today, where I felt the old man's chest press against mine and his hand cup my ass, not by accident but deliberately. I didn't push him away. Not immediately. I froze. And somewhere, deep in the pit of my stomach, something fluttered--something dark, electric.

I closed my eyes, hand sliding under the waistband of my skirt before I even realized what I was doing. My fingers found the heat instantly. My pussy was already wet. Not damp--soaked. I hesitated for a second, swallowing hard, but then I pushed further, spreading the lips with two fingers and stroking along my slit slowly. The slickness made my fingertips glide easily.

I bit my lip. My body arched slightly as I circled my clit, soft at first, then faster. My other hand slid under my shirt, squeezing my breast--imagining someone else's hands there instead. Not his. The old man's rough grip. Ray's accidental hold in the dark. I started fingering myself, rough now, hungry. Two fingers in, then three. I gasped, trying not to make noise, but the waves were building.

Each thrust of my fingers reminded me how dirty this was. How wrong it was. But that's what made it hotter. My husband was out, trusting me. Loving me. And here I was, fucking myself with shaking fingers, imagining the way another man's hand slid under my ass like it belonged there.

The orgasm hit hard. I shuddered, lips parted, chest rising and falling like I'd just run a mile. My inner thighs were slick, my fingers coated. The shame settled in like a blanket afterward. I just lay there, motionless, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

What the hell was happening to me?

This place. These people. Me.

I cleaned myself up quickly, tossed the tissues in the trash, and stumbled into the living room. I turned on the TV just for the noise. I couldn't even focus on what was playing. My heart was still thudding with the aftershock of what I'd just done.

The front door opened a while later. He stepped in, calm and refreshed. His eyes scanned the room, found me, softened again.

He came over. Sat beside me. Put an arm around me.

I leaned into him automatically, resting my head on his chest. He smelled clean. Warm. Familiar.

We cuddled in silence. The TV buzzed softly in the background. On the outside, we looked like any other couple enjoying a lazy afternoon together.

But inside me, something wasn't the same anymore.

I had tasted something. Something I wasn't supposed to. And now I didn't know if I could ever go back.

Chapter 13

The moment he fell asleep that night, after dinner and a movie that felt too normal to be real, I stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. His arms were around me, warm and familiar, but inside... inside I wasn't the same. Not anymore. That afternoon had changed something. Or maybe the change had already started when we moved here. That accidental hug, the old man's rough fingers grazing my curves, his breath grazing my neck--it shouldn't have happened, and yet it did. I told myself it meant nothing. I told myself it was just a slip. But my body... it had responded.

I could still feel the phantom weight of his touch on my skin, like a stain I couldn't wash off. A part of me hated it. Another part... didn't.

The next morning, everything looked calm on the surface. We laughed over breakfast, my husband cracked a lame joke, and I forced myself to laugh along. But guilt clawed at my stomach, twisting it every time I looked at his face. If he ever knew what happened yesterday... what I let happen... No. I shook that thought out of my head and stood up.

"It's time I head to the old man's house," I said casually, like I wasn't on the verge of falling apart inside.

He didn't say anything, just nodded with a forced smile.

But as I walked down the lane, my heart was pounding harder with every step. I hated myself for feeling this way. Like I was walking into something I wanted, something I shouldn't.

When I reached, the door opened before I could knock--like he'd been waiting. That same slow, creepy smile on his face. As if yesterday's intimacy never happened, or maybe he just didn't think it was wrong. Maybe he thought this was all normal now.

I stepped inside. And that's when I noticed the curtains. Drawn shut. Thick. Blocking every drop of sunlight.

My mouth went dry. It felt like he'd planned it. Was this some kind of setup?

He greeted me casually and waved me toward the cleaning supplies. I tried to act normal, like my body wasn't already tense from head to toe. I started mopping the floor, moving around the room. But I could feel it. His gaze. Every time I bent forward, every time my skirt rode up slightly--his eyes were on me. He didn't even try to hide it anymore or maybe he was always like this. Shameless.

When I was near the sink, he came up behind me--too close--and pointed at the dishes like I didn't already know what to do. His hand brushed against my hip. Not rough. Just soft enough to feel deliberate. I didn't even react. I was used to it now. That was the worst part. This kind of touch, this kind of invasion... had become familiar.

I wanted to scream at him, shove him back, leave this house and never come back.

But I didn't. My legs didn't move.

And then, just as I was finishing the utensils, I heard him groan loudly from the couch.

I turned sharply. "What happened?"

He winced, rubbing his thigh. "Cramps... my knee again. The pain is worse today."

Before I could offer help, he looked at me with those tired, needy eyes and said, "Could you help me to the bedroom? I can't walk properly."

I hesitated. But then, silently, I stepped forward and wrapped his arm over my shoulder. His body leaned into mine, heavier than I remembered, his breath hitting my cheek again. That same scent from yesterday--dirty and masculine, clinging to my skin even before we reached the bed.

I lowered him down, trying not to make eye contact. "Anything else you need?" I asked, already wanting to get out of there.

He pointed to the shelf by the bed. "There's a bottle of oil. Massage it into my legs, please. Just a little. It helps with the pain."

I stood there for a moment, frozen. I knew what this could lead to. But I also knew what I'd already let happen.

And worse... part of me was curious. I hated that part.

I grabbed the oil, knelt beside the bed, and began with his foot. Slow, controlled motions. Trying to make it quick and professional.

But then he started making noises. Soft groans of pleasure.

"Mmm... your hands... they're so soft. Must be heaven for your husband."

I pretended not to hear it. Pretended my heart wasn't racing.

As I moved to his calf, he let out a deeper groan. "Such a gentle touch... you're like magic."

His words weren't just compliments anymore. They were suggestions. Teasing and dirty.

I swallowed hard and moved higher, brushing over his knee. That's when I saw it.

A twitch under his loose shorts. A bulge, pressing out, stiff and rising.

I froze. My hand hovered near his thigh.

Had I caused that?

I wanted to stop. I should have stopped. But I didn't.

He looked down at me, completely unashamed. "Just a little more... here," he said, gesturing to his upper thigh. "It's the worst part."

I nodded slowly, unable to speak.

My fingers pressed into the muscle, moving in slow, rhythmic circles. His skin was warm. His breathing grew heavier.

Every stroke I made, the fabric of his shorts twitched again, the tip of his cock barely restrained underneath.

I told myself I was just helping. Just finishing what I started.

But my heart was pounding, and between my legs--I could feel it. That heat. That ache.

I hated myself. But I kept going.

My hands slick with oil, massaging it slowly into his thigh, and I could feel the heat from his skin seeping into my palms. The scent of the oil was thick and sweet--floral but oddly sensual. It coated my hands, clung to my wrists, even began to warm my skin like it was meant to linger. I hadn't noticed it earlier when I took it from the shelf, but now? Now it was everywhere. It was... intoxicating.

And he was watching me.

Not just in the way he always did. His gaze had dropped--blatantly, shamelessly--to my chest. My top had tugged down just enough while I leaned forward, the curve of my breasts pushed out, rising and falling as I breathed. I saw his eyes glued there, his stare heavy and unapologetic, almost like he could see through the fabric. And I swear, he licked his lips.

His thigh was tense beneath my fingers, the muscle twitching as I worked the oil in. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on my hands, on the motion, on the excuse I kept repeating in my head: I'm just helping. This is just for his pain. I'm not doing anything wrong.

Disgust twisted in my gut.

But it didn't stop the little flutter deep inside me either.

But then I felt it again.

That twitch.

That obvious pulse of arousal, hidden barely by the thin, wrinkled fabric of his shorts. It pressed up with each breath, rising higher, thicker. I didn't need to look. I felt it. That growing hardness radiating heat right next to my hand. One more inch, and I'd be touching it.

I should've stopped.

I knew I should've stopped.

But my hands didn't move away. They slowed down. They hovered there on his thigh, coated in oil, my palms slick and warm--just like he liked it. His breath had deepened, rough now, almost like a low growl of satisfaction. I could hear it.

His cock pulsed again under those loose shorts. And this time... I looked.

I didn't mean to. But I did.

It was hard--thick. Heavy. So much bigger than I'd expected for someone his age. The fabric of his shorts wasn't doing much to hide it anymore. It was right there. And for a moment, a dangerous second too long, I imagined what it might feel like in my palm. How it might twitch... react... stretch...

Stop it. What the hell is wrong with me?

I shook the thought from my head and forced my eyes away, back to his thigh, focusing on the circular motion of my hands.

"You've got magic in your fingers, sweetheart..." he groaned, voice deep and hoarse. "Mmm, your husband ever beg for these massages?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

My breath was shallow, skin flushed. My hands moved slower, less confident. I was spiraling.

The scent of oil mixed with his stench, it wrapped around me, made my stomach twist. It should have disgusted me. Instead, I felt... dizzy. Flushed.

Wrong.

He groaned again, shifting slightly, his knee parting just a bit more, opening space for me. For my hand.

"Don't stop," he muttered. "You're doing it just right. That's the spot... ahh, yes."

His voice dripped with intent, and I looked up. His eyes weren't closed. He was watching me. Studying my expression, my hesitation, the tremble in my lips.

And he knew.

He could see it--the way my thighs pressed together involuntarily, the way my breaths were shorter now, quicker. He could see that I wasn't just embarrassed.

I was turned on.

He smiled, slow and dirty. His cock throbbed visibly through his shorts, fully hard. Proud and Shameless.

I hated how close it was. I hated how I couldn't look away.

And still, I didn't pull my hand back.

I rubbed higher. Gently. Testing him. Testing myself. His thigh muscles jumped beneath my touch. I reached the hem of his shorts, just brushing it--and I froze.

It was there. Right there.

If I moved my hand even half an inch up... I'd feel it.

I closed my eyes.

This isn't me. I'm not like this. I'm a wife. I have a husband who loves me. This is wrong. This is sick.

But my nipples were hard under my bra. My panties--already wet. I could feel my arousal, spreading across the inside of my thighs like a shameful confession I couldn't hide.

His voice cut through my thoughts, soft and hoarse. "If your husband knew how good your hands felt, he'd never let you out of bed."

I flinched.

He said it so casually, like we were just flirting. Like I wasn't kneeling here, one motion away from stroking his cock.

Then I glanced up--by accident really--and saw the clock.

Shit.

I had been there over an hour again. Time had slipped away from me, just like last time. Only now... I had no errands. No groceries. No fabricated list to fall back on.

Panic hit me hard and fast.

I jumped to my feet, wiping my palms on the hem of my skirt, trying to look casual. Normal. As if I hadn't just been massaging his legs, eyeing the shape of his cock.

"I--I think that's enough. The oil should start working."

He didn't argue. He just lay back with that same amused grin, like he knew exactly what had just happened. Like he had already won something, even if I hadn't touched him there.

I turned to leave the room, my legs shaky. I needed space.

The second I stepped outside his house, the air felt different. Cooler. Cleaner. My body was hot, my thoughts a mess, and I was covered in that oil. I sniffed my hands, then my clothes. It was everywhere. That goddamn scent--sweet and floral but wrapped in something distinctly masculine now that it had mixed with his skin. I didn't even need to imagine what it would smell like to someone else.

Oh god.

I was screwed. I reached our door, pulse hammering in my chest. I paused. Waited. Listened.

Quiet.

He's probably still working, I told myself. I'll sneak in, take a quick shower, maybe say I picked up something at the store.

I opened the door carefully, pushing it gently so it wouldn't creak. My footsteps were light, deliberate. I moved like a thief. Slow. Quiet. Each step carefully placed on the floor to avoid the boards that creaked.

If I could just make it to the bathroom... I turned to the living room.

And froze.

He was there. Looking directly at me.

My stomach dropped.

I flinched, just for a second. My smile came out stiff, too rehearsed. "H-hey, honey. Sorry I'm a bit late. I had to pick up a few things on the way back. You know... errand stuff."

His eyes narrowed--not angry, but alert. Watching me too closely. I tried to act normal. My hands still smelled like that oil. My clothes clung to me in places it hadn't before. I didn't know if it was the heat or my own damn arousal, but I felt sticky, exposed.

He stood, took a step toward me.

I panicked.

"I'm all sweaty from the walk. Let me just go clean up real quick," I said quickly, forcing a laugh, trying to sound breezy.

Before he could get closer--before he could smell me--I darted past him, heart thudding, practically running toward the bathroom.

The moment the door shut, I leaned against it and finally breathed.

That scent. Still on me. Still thick in the air.

I peeled off my clothes, one by one, holding them like evidence. Everything reeked of him. Of the oil. Of his skin. Of something filthy.

I tossed it in the hamper, turned on the shower, and stepped in under the hot water.

And as it washed over me, all I could think was--

I let him get to me again. I'm letting this happen. I'm letting myself change.

And worst of all?

A part of me didn't want to stop.